


Flee From Idolatry

by A_Starry_Night



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-04 16:01:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17901188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Starry_Night/pseuds/A_Starry_Night
Summary: Galadriel claims the One Ring for her own, and the future of Middle-earth is eternally Night.





	Flee From Idolatry

**Author's Note:**

> This is very dark. Seriously. Please proceed with caution.

Every night she comes to him where he sits in her gardens, a beautiful, utterly Dark and perilous figure dressed in flowing robes of shimmering blue and silver and black. She dresses in the colors of night because she is the Night. Her keen eyes shine like beacons and her long golden hair dances with grey moonlight as it falls shuddering on her fell face.

Every night she smiles down at him and asks him the same question: “Are you happy, Elf-friend?”

She is all perilous Beauty, all untamed passion, and all love her for it even as they cling to their loved ones and wonder who will be taken next. Ever since claiming the One Ring for her own, the Golden Wood has become twisted, a glorious city of peace that is cloaked with Darkness and reeks of Death. Altars burn at all hours, forever and always, their finely-wrought surfaces stained red by sacrifices.

There are so many sacrifices—hand-picked by she herself, from the best of all her “stock”—Elves of exquisite beauty, Men of proud lineage, and all others as sacrifices to gods she hopes to sanction. None protests this; none have the will or the power to do so, as all are held under her power.

He watches it all, however, and stores it all deep down, so far away from conscious thought that not even he’s aware of it. But it’s there, waiting and watchful, until it will finally break the surface and remind him just how wrong all of this is.

Until then, however, he merely sits and does as she bids. He watches the mallorn trees die and wither where they stand, their once-golden leaves now lying brown and shriveled on the ground. He watches silently as the latest sacrifice is laid, drugged and bound, atop the altar. He watches her long silver knife flash in the moonlight as it ends the life of just one in a long line of beings killed for the gods.

She turns to him now, after the blood has been drained into a golden cup. Her full lips are stained scarlet as she smiles at him, holding the chalice to his mouth. He cannot break her gaze, isn’t willing to, as he follows her lead and drinks.

‘So this is what a fellow hobbit’s blood tastes like,’ he thinks idly, and he hears her amused laughter echo in his mind.

He had first tasted Man’s—months ago, when this all began, and she had decided that Gondor no longer needed its future king to come to the throne. The Steward’s son was next as a way to keep the kingdom of Men in line, a killing that drove the Steward himself to despair and madness.

Then there was the Dwarf’s, who was held so utterly under her thrall that he was willing to kill himself for the Elf-maiden he deemed more beautiful and pure than any sunrise. She kept his red beard as a trophy and as a reminder of how much power her beauty held over others. He saw it, however, as a warning.

The son of Thranduil was next. He didn’t watch it, nor did he have to drink—no, he only drank his first Elf when she killed her own husband.

He once had the courage to ask her if what she practiced could be classified as _cannibalism_ ; she merely laughed, but when she stroked his hair it was in a harsher way than ever before, a warning. He never asked her again.

Finally, she takes the cup away and he sees the body of one of his younger cousins lying there—he shudders.

She notices this, and one fine, shapely hand reaches out and strokes his dark hair, her touch just as loving as always. Her eyes are molten, alive and burning, and she bends and kisses him like she always does now, softly and as a blessing of sorts, a promise that he will live another day. Goosebumps shiver down his arms at her touch. “Are you happy, Elf-friend?” she asks him now.

He knows he is only saved from death because he was the one who gave her the One Ring, the thing that allowed her to overthrow the Dark Lord. It is only because of that that he is given special privilege, a mix of pet and slave, and he watches his days darken into eternal Night, filled with nothing but death, the decaying of a world, and the almost addictive love he feels for her—just as everyone loves her.

“Yes, my Lady. I am.” 

As he says this his gaze falls on the Ring she now carries around her neck. It accents her beauty perfectly, and shines with Its own fell light, and he feels, again, the obsessive pull—the hunger—to hold It again.

He is no fool—there will come a day, perhaps soon, when she will tire of him, and he will become her latest sacrifice. He knows this, but the thought does not trouble him.

To be killed for this perfect Ring of precious gold would not, after all, be so bad a thing.

_Wherefore, my dearly beloved, flee from idolatry._  
-1 Corinthians 10:14


End file.
